


Body and Mind

by AngelDustApocalypse



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: But Nothing Too Bad, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Minor Slurs, POV First Person, Self-Discovery, Trans Jace, Trans Male Character, Will add tags as I go, eventual transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-10-31 21:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17857415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelDustApocalypse/pseuds/AngelDustApocalypse
Summary: The path of discovering who you are is never easy, but it's harder for some than it is for others, as a young Jace was quick to learn. But sometimes you need to cast off your doubts and spread your wings, even if it means leaving everything you knew behind. When Body and Mind clash, Jace is going to have to listen to his heart.





	1. Unraveler of Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Here's a little something I've been sitting on for a while. Not super plotty, but just exploring Jace and his journey of self-discovery. I hope you'll all enjoy something a little more introspective than Seal of the Guildpact!

Mom and dad called me Jacinth, after a flower I have never smelled or seen. Dad saw them blooming once on a trip to another Ring, vast swaths of blue and purple, and he told me my eyes after I was born were the same colour as the blossoms. They represent purity and spring, but also sorrow and rebirth. A complicated meaning for a complicated person.

Maybe like the flower that I bear the name of, I’ll be reborn into something new. Something better, something whole.

My body is turning against me, and I don’t know how to stop it.

 

* * *

 

My fingers are trembling as I hold my battered Mana Dynamics textbook, carefully flipping a page as I struggle to keep my voice steady. It’s my turn to read off the word problem for the rest of the class to solve, and I am acutely aware of every set of my peers’ eyes on me even looking down at the words on the page.  It’s not a hard problem at its core, but a tricky one, involving having to work around a damaged node, and some of the more hard-working among the class are already writing. I wish I was the one writing, not standing up here, voice too high pitched, too scared.

_ She sounds like a little kid.  _ The thought floats above the usual background clamour, source clear. I peek up for a second, and I see Jill smirking and staring right at me. My shoulders hunch. I wish I could be invisible. 

At last, though, I can sit down and wait for the next kid to be called to read. The rickety chairs aren’t very comfortable and the tables that serve as shared desks wobble when you put your books on them, but we’re all used to it by now, even if I still notice. I pick at my scarf a little instead of listening fully, still able to feel eyes on me. It just never stops. I move to pulling at the hem of the scarf with my teeth a little.

_ She’s doing it again,  _ comes another thought, followed by a whisper that is no doubt the same thing, except to one of Jill’s friends.

_ Stop calling me that, _ my own mind hisses at me,  _ That’s not who I am. _

But then who am I? I don’t really know.

Jacinth, I guess.

But who is Jacinth? She feels like a skin I put on when I leave the apartment. The real me is somewhere underneath, soft and formless like a snail without a shell. Something that has to be hidden for reasons not entirely clear to me yet.

I pull the scarf out of my teeth abruptly, but the question is done being read. I curse to myself and try and fumble with what I thought I heard of it, scribbling something down I hope is right. It usually is. Just have to sit through one more and the school day is over, and then I can hopefully get home without incident. 

I at least get a moment’s reprieve as Jill is called to read the final question, and I can feel by muscles untense, just a little. I take my time while she reads scratching my graphite on the paper, doodling idly around the top of the worksheet, where my name is printed. A few loops, a flower, some stars. I draw a bird over the last part of my name, so it just says “Jac” instead. A few more lines, and it looks like the bird is flying away, the last segment of my cumbersome moniker inside its little graphite belly.

Jac, huh? How would you say that, anyway? Jack, I guess? No, that’s too sharp. Mom sometimes would call me Jaci when I was small, but that’s too… something. I run through a few more letters absently, pronouncing each slowly in my head, before settling on Jace. that’s kinda cute, right? Sounds like a boy’s name, but… for some reason it makes me feel light.

...why was I doing this again? I don’t really know.

Maybe I needed a nickname to make me feel better. Like how Jill is really called Jillet, I can be Jace for short. I don’t have friends to give me nicknames, so I’ll nickname myself. 

I finish up the question being read and tuck my worksheet in the box on the side of the table for collection by the teacher, taking a second to arrange my books while everyone else gets ready to go. I’m always last out of the classroom, just so I don’t have to talk to anyone else. It’s just too tiring, especially when I have twenty-four flights of stairs in my future. 

I manage to sneak out without incident, avoiding the eyes of my classmates as I weave through the choking crowds to the first set of stairs. The Ring is always packed, and it makes me tense, but I didn’t have a choice but to live with it, ever since I was small. Mom has story after story of how upset I would get as a baby when the crowds were thick and loud, how much of a handful I was… I’m probably still a handful, though not in the same way. 

I didn’t really turn out how they wanted, did I? Meek, quiet, shy. Smart but don’t apply myself. High marks, but not high as they could be, dad always said. Never good enough. And now… whatever else was happening to me. Puberty, I guess. What a crock of drake dung that was, too; I never asked for any of this weird stuff to happen to me! But what can I do about it?

I managed to climb several flights of stairs while on autopilot, lost in my own head. Hm. Just that much closer to home, I guess.

The rest pass without incident, and I pass time by counting each step, making a little pattern game out of it. One, two, three steps, skip up the fourth. One, two, three… I’m at the last flight before I know it. Some of the plating outside is rattling in the wind at such a high altitude, but I ignore it, meandering up to the door of the apartment. 

Mom is home, today one of her few days off, though no days are truly free for her; an emergency could happen at any moment, and she’d be off again. She has a bunch of fabric spread out all over the kitchen table, and dad is holding a mug in one hand and a paper in the other, apparently trying to both read and drink his  _ klah _ without putting either down and disturbing her work. She has a needle and a big spool of thread in her hands, carefully stitching up seams.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, dropping my bag near the door and taking off my scarf, trying to conceal the chewed-up ends. She takes a few pins out of her mouth and pokes them into a little stuffed cloth ball before answering.

“Just who I wanted to see! You know Mrs. Wilmaya a few floors down? She asked me to make a tunic for her son, Keaton. He’s a few years younger than you but pretty big for his age, so you’ll be a great model. Come here, let’s see how this hangs on you.”

“Ranna, you’re going to embarrass her,” my father mumbles around the rim of his mug.

My heart races a little, though I don’t quite know why, and I go to stand next to my mother.

“No, I’ll help. Here…”

I hastily tug my overtunic off, dropping the long garment on the floor so I’m just in my undershirt. Dad sighs and looks back at his paper, and I idly scratch my chest. Mom sticks a few pins into the tunic to keep it together so she can test it on me, before tugging it over my head and adjusting it slightly. A few of the pins poke me, but it’s not too bad.

“Now, this is a boy’s tunic, so it’s a bit square and short on you, okay? And I’ll need to put a belt on you, hold still a second…”

She fastens a cloth belt around my waist and adjusts the fabric on me again, before stepping back to admire her work. I wiggle a little so the pins don’t bother me, then look down a bit. The tunic isn’t complete yet, but something in me really like how it hangs on my body.

“Great! You look almost like my son instead of my daughter, huh sweetie? Mrs. Wilmaya is going to love it.”

It bite my lip lightly, that funny feeling of lightness erupting up through my core again, but I still can’t explain why. My heart is threatening to hammer out of my chest, and I can feel my face warm, just slightly.

“I told you, she’s embarrassed, ” dad adds as he peers over the paper at my flushed cheeks.

“No…! No, I’m not, I… It’s just kinda warm, a little,” I stammer out, trying to keep a grip on my words, but it’s hard. “Mom, um… Do you think you could… make me one like it, too? I like it.”

She looks surprised, but carefully gathers the unfinished tunic off me and puts it back on the table.

“Really? I mean… I could pick up some fabric, if you liked it that much, sweetie…”

I nod my head a little more frantically than intended, both my parents giving me confused looks now. Dad’s thoughts are a little annoyed, and mom’s are confused but happy, but mine are full of birdsong. 

Maybe soon I can feel more like me, and less like Jacinth, whoever the real me is.


	2. Demystify

The mirror is my enemy.

I stare into Jacinth’s eyes, and she looks back. She has my blue eyes, my brown hair, my round face, but her braid is too heavy on me. It hangs partway down my back, knotted carefully every morning by my mother and then undone by me at night. I pull on it gently, winding the thick plait around my fingers and fluffing the tuft of hair at the end. My eyes wander down to the scissors set on the rim of the sink, pilfered from mom’s sewing supplies. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to do what I had the urge for, but I can’t make my hands pick them up, can’t bring them up to the knot of hair weighing me down.

I look back at the mirror, and examine my reflection. I lick my lips nervously, then chew on a bit of dry skin coming off them. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, staring at the mirror, pondering the unthinkable.

It’s the end of the sevenday, so I don’t have school for two days. My parents, too, are both gone to work, leaving me here to do what I please. Two days without having to be near my peers is enough time to do what I had been thinking about, get used to it… Dad would probably kill me, though. I haven’t cut my hair in a long time, and he’s always been… defensive, about me and what I do.

I finally take the scissors up with my shaking fingers, adjusting my grips several times. It’s now or never, I can’t wimp out now. Take matters into my own hands to alleviate the urges to change myself to fit some still-foggy vision of who I want to be. I pull the braid taut and line it up between the scissor blades. I hesitate.

_ You can do it, Jacinth. _

No.

_ You can do it, Jace. _

Trying out my new nickname in my head provides just what I must have needed, as I squeeze down the scissors, blades slicing through the thick hair easily. A testament to their sharpness, or to my resolve, I’m not sure which. 

The braid is hanging limp in my hand now, no longer attached to my head. The rest of my hair hangs in jagged half-curls around my face, lighter than it’s ever been. I slowly lower the scissors, sending some loose hairs falling to the floor and the metal sink, and the hand holding my severed braid follows suit, hanging limp as a dead snake over the rim.

I’m not sure what to do now. My chest feels light, but there’s a dread lurking in my gut. Dad’s going to be home first, he always is, and when he sees what I’ve done… I’m not sure what will happen. He’s got a temper, and though he’s never hurt me, it can be a bit intimidating.

I abandon my braid and the scissors to hide in my room, distracting myself with my textbook and my homework. I can’t stop touching my hair as I work, feeling how short it is, how light. I keep catching myself smiling.

I write Jace on the top of my homework.

 

* * *

 

Dad’s home. I can hear him walking around, taking off his boots and setting his tool pack aside, before his footsteps trail to the bathroom.

There is quiet for a while. I’m very still, sitting on my bed with the textbook in my lap, open to a page detailing the maintenance of the guide rings. I read the same sentence exactly four times, absorbing none of it.

“Jacinth?”

Here it comes.

“Jacinth!”

He sounds angry. Footsteps come up to my bedroom door, then stop. He knocks, but doesn’t wait for me to answer before coming in, my severed braid in his hand. He wiggles it at me like it’s a severed limb. I don’t make eye contact, but that’s nothing new, and he doesn’t force me to.

“Jacinth. What the hell is this?”

My eyes flick from the braid in his hand up to his face for a second. I’m tempted to just say ‘a braid’, but now is probably a poor time to try and be witty. I chew on my lip, but don’t answer, and I see his face soften, slightly. Disappointment. That’s worse than anger somehow.

“...Come on, sweetie. You were so pretty, why did you do… this?”

I flinch slightly, and I can feel the confusion and disappointment coming off him in waves from his thoughts. I can feel how hard he’s trying to understand me, how he’s always struggled to find a rationale for my unusual behaviour. How he worried that I would never be normal. I don’t answer, my mind still trying to find some explanation for it.

“Your mother works so hard to make you look nice, how do you think she’s going to feel about you ruining that?”

He steps into the room, less tense than he was, but still radiating disappointment. I hug my textbook to my chest, and he sighs.

“Is something wrong at school? Are you being made fun of again? If I have to go have another talk with your teacher…”

A wave of anger comes off him a moment, his thoughts roiling with how much he hates how everyone else treats me.  I bite my lip. I can feel him getting frustrated.

“Please talk to me, Jacinth.”

The words are there in my head, but they turn to sand in my mouth, refusing to stay solid. How can I tell my father why I did what had to be done? That something in the back of my skull scratched and squirmed and howled until I took the scissors to my hair? He’s a stubborn man, and I don’t know if he would understand. I can feel him getting frustrated by my silence, and that just makes it harder to speak.

“Fine. We’ll talk about this when your mother gets home.”

A common line with him. I just nod, squeezing my textbook to my chest. The pressure is comforting. He leaves, and to his credit doesn’t slam the door behind him this time. 

 

* * *

 

 

I barely notice the time pass, burying myself in the textbook again for comfort. But when I hear my parents talking through the thin walls, I go still. I’m not sure how my mother will react; she’s always so understanding, but I’ve done something a little more radical than normal. I don’t look up when she enters my bedroom, pretending I’m absorbed in my textbook.

“Sweetie, your dad told me what happened. Do you need to talk?”

I swallow, looking up at her finally. There are tears in my eyes, and I hate it. I feel small, vulnerable. Scared. But there’s no anger or judgement on her face, only that tender compassion I’ve seen in her eyes my whole life. I move to the side a little so she can sit next to me, and she does, gently brushing her fingers through my jagged hair.

“...I didn’t like having long hair,” I manage to croak out. She just nods, letting me speak. “I don’t know… I just, had to get rid of it. It was bothering me.”

Her brows furrow slightly with worry, still gently shaking tangles out of my ragged half-curls. I can feel her going over what to do in her head, but not much detail. I don’t want to look too deep. Finally, though, she stands up again, gently taking the textbook from my hands and setting it aside, face-down. 

“That’s alright, sweetie. It’s a bit of a rough job, but… Let’s get it cleaned up a little, okay? Your dad isn’t angry anymore, so don’t worry about him.”

She takes me back to the bathroom, and I watch as my mother’s kind, gentle hands shape my jagged hackjob into something presentable. She shapes it gently, lifting brown hair away from my face and neck, short but not too short. I look into the mirror as I watch Jace slowly begin to take shape from Jacinth.

“There, that looks nicer, doesn’t it? A little boyish, but… It suits you, I think,” she says when she’s done, leaning down to kiss my cheek. My face is warm again, my heart light.

I turn and embrace her tight, and I can feel her surprise, but she quickly wraps me tightly in the arms that always nurtured and protected me, no matter what. She rests her cheek on the top of my head, and I feel her breath hitch as I whisper my most sincere thank you.

I’m not sure what’s going on quite yet, but I’m one step closer to finding out.


	3. Formless Nurturing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Who's ready for some more Quality Trans Jace? I know I am!
> 
> Got some minor slurs in this one, Jill is a bad person.

Mom finished my new tunic. She’s a fast sewer, and they don’t take very long at all to begin with, she told me. I think she just wanted me to feel better after my little… incident, with my hair.

But the why doesn’t matter. I’m in my bedroom now, adjusting how my new green tunic hangs on me. I’m a little skinny and small, but it hides that pretty well, hanging down almost to my knees and hiding my hips and the dip of my waist, the belt holding it closed covering that up. The trousers are a little big on me, but that’s okay, too. Using my tiny window as an impromptu mirror, I adjust my caplet and scarf. School starts up again today.

Mom smiles at me when I come out to get my bag and head out, fluffing my now-short hair and kissing my forehead like always. Dad is in a better mood now too, quietly sipping his _klah_ and already in his work clothing. He quietly tells me to have a good day at school, but I can feel the worry in his thoughts. I give him a quick half-hug before I’m out the door to try and reassure him, but honestly I’m just as worried about my wellbeing as he is.

Going down the stairs is easier than going up, and they’re much more empty this early in the morning, so I only have to wiggle past a group of maintenance workers walking side by side and I’m at the door of the learning bay. I’m a little early, so I lean on the wall and try to blend in, hands tucked under my arms and crossed over my chest. There aren’t many other kids here yet, so I’m left alone for a little while, but I soon see a familiar red-haired head turn the corner, and I hunch my shoulders. Jill. And Tuck is right behind her.

Jill sees me pretty quickly, nudging Tuck and pointing at me. They’re on me like a starving drake on a gull, and I look down, pretending not to notice them. I rub my boot against a rivet on the metal floor, but they know I’ve seen them.

“Hey, nice hackjob, Jacinth!” Jill laughs, nudging my shoulder just enough to make me stumble. Tuck laughs too; a rough, unfriendly sound.

“Go away…” Is all I manage to mumble out, but it just makes her nudge me again.

“C’mon Jacie, she was just complimenting you,” Tuck says, but I don’t look at him, cheeks burning. I hate when they call me that. I exhale out my nose, but Jill grabs ahold of the sleeve of my tunic. The couple other kids who are here already are staring, but nobody makes a move.

"And the clothes! You were never much of a looker, but this is just sad! Guess I shoulda expected you'd be a dyke, Jacie."

I try to mumble out a protest, but I’m too shaken at being called something like that. That’s a terrible thing to call someone, but Jill and Tuck don’t care; whatever will get a rise out of me, or make me cry. I’m doing my best to hold back, but it hurts more than I can put into words, even to myself.

"Either you're a dyke, or you've just decided to own being ugly. Which is it? Or is it both?" she continues, pulling on my tunic roughly. I can feel a few threads starting to snap. "Your mom make these for you? I almost feel bad for you, knowing she sends you to school like this!"

“I’m not… either of those things,” I hear myself whisper, throat night and eyes wet. No matter how hard I hold back, the tears always come. “I like my clothes.”

“Really? Cause you look like one of the primary schoolers in ‘em.”

"It's like a toddler tried on daddy's clothes!" Tuck adds.

I try and twist away from Jill’s grip on my tunic, but she pulls firmly in response, which splits the seam of my tunic all the way up my arm and reveals by bare arm. I go still, and she just laughs, everyone’s eyes on us.

"Oh, no! Look what happened. Looks like you're gonna have to get changed. Maybe you can put on something that _doesn't_ look like drake shit!"

She always does this. Always pushes me around, punishes me for existing, for not living up to her standards of what I should be. Tuck is just as bad, not afraid to push me around as he sees fit either. It makes something in me burn and roil, too many emotions at once. I search my mind for the worst word I can think of, ready to toss it at Jill as payback.

“You’re such a… a _bitch!_ ”

That’s the loudest thing I’ve said in a while. I hear Tuck inhale and make a soft ‘ohh’ noise, and the other kids mutter among themselves. Jill’s eyes have gone wide, but I can feel her thoughts already spinning into a new and creative punishment.

Before I can react she’s grabbed me by the caplet, shoving me against the wall and twisting the fabric so it gets tight around my neck. I wheeze, fear making my gut go sour and tears well up in eyes.

"Look who's got a mouth on her. You think you're brave for callin' me that? How about you give up trying to be tough and just start crying like a little baby? It's what you're good at."

I try to protest, but all that comes out is a strained whimper. She’s right in my face, a wild look in her eyes.

"Yeah, you're already doing it! Just say you give up and you won't call me that again, and I'll stop. Got it?"

I choke out an apology, desperate to escape her grip and the blistering closeness. I’m stammering and my face is wet, but I do as I’m told. She finally lets go of me, and I slump against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

“That’s what I thought.”

Before I can say or do anything else, though, the instructor comes around the corner from the corridor, though she stops in the middle of the room when she sees Jill standing over me.

“What’s going on here?”

It’s like someone flipped a switch in Jill, and her demeanour shifts immediately, putting on her best soft, worried expression, one that adults often wore around me. I open my mouth to speak, but I catch Tuck staring at me out of the corner of my eye and close it again, chewing my lip hard.

"Oh! Sorry for the fuss. Jacinth got her tunic caught on a rivet."

A blatant lie, but nobody else corrects her. None of them want to risk their own necks by ratting her out. The instructor comes over to me and examines the tear in my sleeve, and from her thoughts I can tell she’s bought Jill’s fake story hook, line, and sinker.

“You need to be more careful, dear,” she sighs, one hand on her hip. “I’ll write a note for your mother. Jillet, can you escort her home? I’ll excuse you from the first lesson.”

I stare into space as the instructor takes a sheet of paper out of her bag and scribbles a note for my mother on it, then hands it to me. I can see Jill out of the corner of my eye, wearing the smuggest look I’ve ever seen on her face. The other kids file into the classroom, and I stuff the note in my bag and watch the instructor go.

Just me and Jill, now.

“Well, you heard her. Let’s get baby back to mommy!”

She takes the end of my scarf in her hands and starts to lead me off like it’s a leash, and I feel my ears get warm. I’m thankful that it’s still early, nobody really around to see this. I feel like a bird; skittish, always twitching around, ready to flee at any moment. Everyone else can smell it on me, that’s why I’m the butt of their jokes, nobody’s friend. She leads me up a few flights of stairs, and I try to protest against the names she calls me, but it only comes out as a whisper.

“I’m not a baby,” I croak, but she manages to hear me.

"Pff. You cry like one, you dress like one. You can barely talk like one. Baby."

I flinch a little at that one. I remember how dad would always talk about how hard it was for me to start speaking when I was small, and how proud he was when I finally did. It hurts to hear it used as an insult. I scowl.

“I can talk fine,” is out of my lips before I can think any better of it. She laughs a little, looking over her shoulder at me as we climb the endless stairs.

"How come you always freak out in class then? Look like the teacher's about to eat you and you, like, start stuttering. Half the time you just sit there dead-quiet, staring up like an idiot."

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I bite my lip instead, looking down at the metal floor so I don’t have to see Jill or her horrible, smug face any more.

“See? You’re doing it right now!” She laughs. My face burns.

The rest of the trip up the stairs is mostly quiet, and I can taste copper in my mouth by the time we reach the door of the tiny apartment. My lip hurts, but I can’t undo it now. I peek up, and Jill has turned to face me. I swear she looks a little disappointed that her torment of me is about over, and I know she can’t help but try and get the last word in.

"Well, here you go. And I'd drop the dyke look if I were you," she says, tugging sharply on the torn tunic before she releases me.

I scamper for the door and pry it open, turning back at her for a moment that feels like eternity. The eye contact burns, but it also makes something well up inside me, something warm and encouraging and _brave,_ something so unlike me that I can’t help but do something.

“No,” I say, firmer and more sure than anything I’ve ever said. I see a split second of surprise in her eyes before the door slams in her face. I turn and press my back against the door, eyes closed. Home. Safe.

My heart is beating so hard and fast I don’t hear my mother’s voice entirely when she notices me, and it’s only her gentle touch on my shoulder that snaps me out of my blissful trance, my eyes snapping open to look up at her worried face.

“Jacinth? Why are you home?”

I swallow. Right. I take a second to shuffle around, dropping my bag near the door and kicking off my boots, setting them on the shoe rack. Mom watches me patiently the whole time, used to this sort of thing by now. I can tell she’s noticed the tear in my clothes, though, by the way her brow furrows and her lips curve down into a frown. I pull the note out of my bag and hand it to her. I watch her read it, looking up at me every so often until she’s done, when she sets it on the table.

“That’s not what happened, is it, sweetie?”

I shake my head, chewing my lip again. I can hear how sad her voice is, and it hurts. She hates how everyone treats me.

“Come on, I’ll get it fixed up for you, okay…?”

She comes over and gently coaxes my lip out of my teeth, then helps me out of the tunic. She’s so gentle, wiping a bead of blood off my split lip with her sleeve and kissing my forehead. I feel like I want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Jill did it, she’s so mean to me all the time, I…”

Her arms are around me before the first tear wets my cheek, holding me to her soft body. I rest my head on her chest and let her stroke my hair, her fingers finding each tangle in my now-short curls. She’s holding me tight, squeezing down all around my body like she knows I like. She smells like home.

“I know, sweetie. It’s not your fault, okay? You don’t have to go back to school today.”

I can feel the edge of her thoughts, the swirl of worry and how she’s trying so hard to think of some way to help me. There’s a haze of love over it all, and I can physically feel just how much she’d give to make me happy, how much she loves me. My chest aches with it, and I do my best to get my mind close to hers, but I don’t know how to touch hers, let her see how I feel the same. I don’t know if I can.

“I love you,” I whisper. Her grip on me gets a little tighter.

“I love you too, baby,” she mumbles into my hair. "..I wish I knew what to do. But no matter what, I'm here for you, okay?"

“Okay,” I manage to get out, almost lost to her warmth.

No matter what happens, I know my family will be there for me, even if nobody else is.


	4. Cyclical Evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace finally makes a breakthrough, with a bit of help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of speculative worldbuilding goin' on here, fun stuff. A tad short, but we're getting to the goodies soon.

Things have been… quiet enough. It’s been about a sevenday since I got sent home from school, and it’s been close to normal. At least as close to normal as my life can be, anyway. Jill hasn’t been openly bothering me as much, which is a blessing, but I just know that means she’s planning something with her two flunkies. 

On the other hand, I think dad got a sending from school about me writing my name ‘wrong’ on my worksheets. He hasn’t mentioned it to me, but I overheard him talking to mom about it. They’re worried about me; dad thinks this is a reaction to being bullied, but mom thinks there’s something deeper than that going on, but she doesn’t know what. I don’t either, really.

It’s the weekend now, though, and dad’s got me up early. I don’t know why, and it’s got me a bit nervous, trying to calm my worried thoughts as I brush my teeth and get dressed. I play with my undershirt a bit longer than normal, trying to adjust the way it fits on my body. Things have been… changing, there, and I don’t like it. It makes my stomach get tight to look at, the back of my neck itch. I tug my tunic on quickly to avoid thinking about it too long.

Dad is waiting by the door, hands in his coat pockets. He’s looking at me, his expression oddly soft, worried. He opens the door and leads me out, resting his hand gently on the back of my neck as we head down the stairs. It’s oddly comforting, in a way I can’t fully explain. My dad isn’t a very physically affectionate man, at least since I’ve gotten older, so even small acts like this prove he still cares.

He doesn’t speak until we’re halfway down the stairs, just the two of us walking, that warm palm rubbing the back of my neck in that way I like. When he does speak, his voice is soft and gentle, his usual gruffness only a faint undertone.

“There’s a woman visiting the Ring I want to take you to. She’s a healer, but not like your mother is, I guess,” he says, sounding a bit unsure about this. I tug on my scarf.

I’m not sure what a healer that’s not like mom is like. I’m not sick, either, so I don’t know why we’re going to see this person… I fidget all the way to the very ground floors of the ring, where it’s mostly offices for important people, as well as some quarters that can be rented out by travellers. It’s better maintained here than up top, the metal shiny and clean, and decorative ornaments even in places. It’s nothing compared to what I’ve heard about the Core, though, which is something I can hardly even imagine; a city all sprawled out on the ground instead of up in the rings. What a strange, alien place.

“What kind of healer are we seeing…?” I finally manage to ask, pressed close to my father’s side now with nerves. His hand is still on my neck, and he squeezes gently.

“Like… A healer for your head and spirit, I guess, and not your body. Your mother thinks there’s something going on and this is our best bet, Blue Jay.”

I can’t help but smile a little when he calls me that. His little blue jay, ever since I was little. It’s like he knew one day I’d want to fly. I lean on him a little bit and nod. 

“She’s in here,” he says eventually, indicating one of the visitor rooms. He knocks on the door, which is soon answered by a woman who’s probably about 60 years old, most of her body shrouded in long skirts and a shawl. She talks to dad a little, and it seems that he had arranged to bring me here ahead of time. I’m still a bit worried, wondering just what dad wants healed from me. 

I’m led into the little room and the woman starts to examine me immediately, looking over my face, my hair, my clothes. I notice her eyes have tiny pinpricks of blue light deep inside them, and I can’t stop staring. Is she doing some kind of spell on me? I clutch my arms to my chest, watching her warily. Is she going to find out I can read people? Am I going to be in trouble? My mind is going a mile a minute and my heart thumps in my chest like a caged bird, all the while this strange woman looks me over, my father watching. He looks just as nervous as I do.

Eventually, she rests both her hands on my cheeks and squeezes slightly, and… smiles at me? The glow in her eyes is brighter now, locked right on mine, and I can feel the usual tension building up at the eye contact, but I don’t dare break away.

“This child is special,” she says, and my father leans a bit closer. “Something burns in the young one’s chest, a vast potential. I also see… turmoil.”

Turmoil? I swallow a lump that’s been growing in my throat. I hear dad echo my thought.

“Yes. The Great Ring has been broken with this one,” she practically whispers. Dad huffs and rolls his eyes as if annoyed, but I’ve never heard this before.

“Great Ring…?” I venture.

“The cycle of life and rebirth that fuels the lands of Vyrn, an eternal ring unbroken that channels souls like the Mage-Rings channel mana. A soul starts small, an insect perhaps, and is reborn again and again, bigger each time. Insect becomes a rat becomes a cat, becomes a a drake, a man, a sphynx, a dragon, then back to the beginning once more. You have been disrupted, somehow. You are different. Something meant for greatness.”

I’m not sure what to make of this. I glance at dad, but the woman has my face held in her hands still. She smooths one over my cheek and through my hair gently, a strange little smile on her face. 

“You’ll shed your skin one day, young one,” she says softly to me, then turns to my father. “Take care of your child, Mister Beleren. This one is a treasure.”

Dad’s annoyed expression softens, and a thought flits through the air I know has come from him, and my face goes a little pink. 

_ You didn’t have to tell  _ me _ that. _

* * *

 

Dad’s quiet the whole way home, and I don’t pry, going over all of this in my head. The Great Ring is interesting, but I didn’t know if it’s just some sort of legend, or a real thing. It felt like it could be real, but so did a lot of things I had read in fiction books. And… shed my skin. What did that mean? Something about it just felt so right, but why?

The rest of the day goes by quietly, me spending much of my time in my room studying for the Mana Dynamics test in two sevendays. Eventually, though, I hear mom come home, and I get up to go greet her, but before I can open my bedroom door, I hear dad’s voice.

“Ranna, we should talk.”

I let my hand slide off the handle, and press my body to the door, ear against the metal. I can hear some shuffling as they move around the apartment, then the sofa creak as someone sits on it. 

“I took Jacinth to see the witch that came in the other night, she had some very strange things to say,” dad continues. I hear mom sigh.

“It’s not polite to call them witches, dear. But… what did she say?”

“She said some stuff about that Great Ring superstition, that Jacinth somehow managed to break it, and that’s what’s going on with her. I don’t get it, but… What other explanation is there, Ranna? I just want to know what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

I’ve never heard dad so upset before, at least not in a sad way. I curl my fingers against the metal of the door and try to keep myself breathing steady. The sofa creaks again, presumably mom sitting down too.

“I spoke to some of the other healers about it, too. Not a lot from them, but… One told me a story about how she had met a healer from a different Ring who had had to treat a… well, what she said exactly was a ‘boy who wanted to be a girl’. I’m not sure what to make of it, maybe that’s what…?”

My heart jumps into my throat. You can do that? You can want to be different like that? I quickly try that on in my head. Jace Beleren, a young man. My heart hammers in my ears, the pieces sliding into place. That must be it. Surely.

Dad makes a little grunt, like he doesn’t know what to think either. They’re both quiet a little bit, and I stand there, as if stuck in place. Dad finally speaks up again, his voice hard to hear.

“I just want my Blue Jay to be happy. To get out of this place, make something of herself.”

Maybe I will, dad. Maybe I really will shed my skin, and make myself into the boy I’m beginning to suspect hides behind Jacinth’s face.


	5. Sphinx's Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace's entire world is about to turn upside down, but at least he's getting a hold on who he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skimming over a bunch of the events of Absent Minds for this one. Enjoy!

I’ve been experimenting. 

Mom and dad haven’t said anything to me about their conversation, or about the witch since then, but I notice dad has a bit more patience than normal, at least when it comes to how I dress. Mom got me a pair of new boots, heavier than my old shoes, and trimmed my hair a bit more, which she claimed was to make it look nicer, but I think they want to see how I react to it.

That suits me fine. I’ve been trying to carry myself more like the boys in my class, see if that changes things. Holding my shoulders up so high is hard, but I like the effect, and if I lift my chin just right, my jaw looks more square, just a little. I think this is it. 

Jacinth is starting to fall away now, the way a drake sheds its skin in the autumn. Underneath is something shiny and new, better suited for the coming winter. Jace is taking form now, more than the little wisps I saw in the mirror when I cut my hair, more than the daydreams. Real, tangible. 

Not everything is perfect, though. I think Jill and her goons have noticed me trying to be different, because they’ve amped up their bullying. The Mana Dynamics test is coming up faster and faster, too, a detailed and difficult subject that even adults can have trouble with. I tried peppering dad with questions about it, but I think it mostly just made him annoyed. 

But I guess for everything good, there’s bad. I just need to muscle through this, and it should be smooth sailing, I hope.

 

* * *

 

I messed up. I messed up so badly. 

The test came and went, and everyone either thinks I cheated, or I’m a  _ freak _ , more than usual. Dad is angry with me again. The higher I climb, the farther down I slide.

And I almost killed Caden, I think. I can’t control my telepathy, and I was only trying to save myself after Tuck almost killed  _ me, _ but… I can’t help but feel guilty, even if they were always cruel to me. 

I’ve hidden myself away in my room for about a day now, just thinking. Maybe I can run away from all this, flee to some other ring and start a new life. There nobody will know Jacinth, small and weak, a  _ freak  _ who can’t do anything correctly. I can hide how I was born and what I can do, and stop being a burden on my family. 

Dad keeps trying to talk to me, but I’ve been ignoring him. He isn’t even just coming in like he used to, finally seeming to respect my need for privacy. Mom hasn’t bothered, more aware of how I get when I’m upset, I guess.

I just need to come up with a plan.

 

* * *

 

 

I was going to leave, but mom finally came to speak to me. There’s just something about her that I can’t help but open up, let out how I’m feeling. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She knows I can read people now, knows what I’m capable of.

But she doesn’t think I’m a freak.

She loves me, despite what I can do. Despite who I am. Despite how I’m changing, how different I am from the others. She called me perfect.

Perfect.

I just hope I can live up to that, for her.

 

* * *

 

They found me a teacher. I don’t know how, or if it was entirely their choice to do so, but they found another telepath to teach me, help me control what I can do. He’s a sphinx, one of the great beasts the witch told me were part of the Cycle. I briefly wonder if I had been meant to be one, and that’s why I have abilities usually only sphinxes have, but that seems like a rude thing to think about around him.

His name is Alhammarret, and already I feel a bit more open around him. I don’t need to speak, to use my mouth to form the words that sometimes come out like sludge. My thoughts are easier, faster, more coherent. I’m going to go away with him for who knows how long, train at his side, and become a scholar, a mage, an arbiter… Any of those would be perfect, maybe all three. I’ll make dad happy.

It’d take a few days to reach the sphinx’s home - my home, maybe, for at least a while - so it was just him and me. He’d already taught me about the war, and about the difficult job of an arbiter. Idle telepathic conversation was the only thing to really do as we soared over more of Vryn that I ever thought I’d see in my entire life. I’m aware of his mind, vast and cool like water, close to mine. I wonder how easily he can read me, which is soon answered with a rumble through his body beneath me that I can only assume was a laugh of some sort.

_ “You are talented, yes, but still young. One of our first lessons will be how to close your mind up. Many people let their thoughts float free, but you must keep yours close to you, for they are your greatest asset.” _

_ “Of course… I hope I do a good job.” _

He rumbles again.

_ “I have the feeling you will do excellent.” _

There’s quiet for a little while, and I wonder just how much of me he can see. Can he too see what the witch saw? Does he know about the Cycle like she did, or does he think it’s a superstition like my father? I grip onto his fur a bit more firmly, wondering how to breach the subject. But he’s already seen it, his powerful mind able to read me like a book.

_ “It is an interesting encounter you’ve had, with the Ring Disciple. That’s what they call themselves, child, those that follow the cycle unbroken. Not something I put much stock into myself, but it’s a popular philosophy.” _

_ “So you can.. See what’s wrong with me, then?” _

_ “I can. I wouldn’t say that it’s really wrong, though; you are different, yes, but that’s an asset, I think. You are malleable, more adaptive than your peers. And I will call you whatever you would like me to, all you have to do is ask.” _

My heart is fluttering, from vertigo or his words I can’t tell.

_ “Can you call me… Jace? Call me a boy?” _

_ “Certainly,” _ his thoughts rumble in my head like the purr of a cat much smaller. We quickly alight on the landing platform of his home, and he allows me to dismount, my legs shaky from sitting for so long. His great wing wraps around me slightly to shield me from the wind, and I look around at the building around us.

_ “Welcome home, Jace Beleren.” _


End file.
